If you have a large enough garden you might decide to employ a professional gardener to tend it for you.

But what if the gardener outsourced, say, three-quarters of the work to someone else, sent in the bill for it, while also invoicing you for the original, agreed amount? Might you not regard that as fraudulent?

Parliament has form in defrauding the public that goes back before the current deceitful expenses row. It has outsourced three-quarters of its legislative responsibilities to Brussels, sending us the bill, while expecting to receive a stonking good salary, plus allowances, for the small segment of lawmaking they have retained. It’s blatant fraud.

There is now a sizeable majority in England for a trade-only deal with the EU, regaining complete control of political and legislative matters.

Gordon Brown’s response, like his predecessor Tony Blair’s, is to rat on a promised referendum and sign yet more powers away in the Lisbon Treaty.

That, surely, exceeds even the grubbly antics of this Scottish mafia over MP’s expenses?

In PMQs on Wednesday, Gordon Brown slipped in a very Old Labour phrase that seemed to go unnoticed by everyone else. I watched the recording again on the BBC’s iPlayer to make certain I had heard it correctly.

In the first few minutes of the session, Brown answered a question by Gregory Campbell MP. He said:

“An investment of £600 million into Northern Ireland advances the public works programme and helps the unemployed.”

Public works? When was the last time those words were used in political discourse by a senior Cabinet Minister in Britain?

Redolent of a creaking Keynesianism of the “Stuff cash into beer bottles, bury them and employ workers to dig them up” variety, it harks back to the 1930s, with maybe a whisper or two from the 70s.

Was it a Freudian slip by the Prime Minister, or an indication of his current reading? Here’s Wikipedia on public works:

“… public works projects are characteristic of socialism. … in the private sector, entrepreneurs bear their own losses and so private sector firms are generally unwilling to undertake projects that could result in losses. Since it is politically unpopular for governments to use public revenues to bail out private firms that lose money … the preferred alternative is to have governments undertake unprofitable projects directly.”

Talk about reverting to type. Brown has lost all hold on reality.

Recent research suggests that women only ever listen to gossip and other juicy snippets from within their circle. They ignore everything else.

Men might well feel outraged that their lengthy explanations of defects in various cars, or the football team they support, fall on deaf ears.

But, hold on. What is “gossip” in the scheme of things?

Gossip is ultra-local news, so minor it’s never reported in the news media. The goings-on within a street or small village are hardly going to make the pages of the local rag, nor unduly bother the stringers employed by the nationals.

It falls to members of the inner circle to distribute this micro-news to others who may be interested in it. Thus the ladies are fulfilling a necessary social purpose in gossiping over the garden fence.

So, chaps, when your nearest and dearest is ignoring your latest theory on Formula One and passing on a seemingly irrelevant nougat of information about Janice down the road, just think of her as a citizen journalist, mopping up the news that others won’t touch.

Carry on girls.

Continuing the theme of women talking to each other, I listened to part of a radio debate last week between two survivors of the feminist movement of the 1970s. Much was familiar, a lot was old hat. We really have moved on from all that angst now.

One phrase jarred on me though: “a patriarchal society”.

Visions of a Biblical scene swam before my mind’s eye. Against a background of camels and sand, a wild figure is leading his tribe to the promised land. Along the way he gives them their laws, shapes their way of life, and predicts 9/11 centuries hence. He looks a bit like Charlton Heston.

But wait! Aren’t we being led by a patriarchal character now in the shape of Gordon Brown? Doesn’t he rule Downing Street with an iron staff, beating back any who disagree with a fusillade of flying objects, from Nokias to laser printers?

Isn’t his writ the Word of Gord? Does He not interpret the very signs from Heaven for us, his people, while expecting little reward except £6000 for his cleaner, furnishings for his third home, and exemption from capital gains tax for his house sales?

On second thoughts, maybe he’s more like the leader of a group of gorillas in the Cameroon rain forest.

Those big fellas can be very patriarchal.

There are two types of politician in Scotland.

The Tory type is urbane, slightly patrician, well educated, and tends to improve the tone of the Westminster Parliament. Think Malcolm Rifkind, Michael Forsyth, Liam Fox, and others.

The Labour type, which predominates, is mainly working class, of trades union heritage, and cut his teeth in the one-party State that was, and to some extent still is, modern Scotland. Think Gordon Brown and Speaker Michael Martin.

Before devolution, Scottish politics existed largely at local level. Labour dominated, with little opposition to hold it in check. The result was that corruption, mafia methodologies and intimidation have been its defining charcteristics for decades.

Now we have the fruits of this system in Westminster. Gordon Brown rules by intimidation, ruthlessly cutting down his opponents by destroying their reputations, often with grotesque lies, and maintains an iron grip on policy matters down to the finest detail. In a modern technological society that is a recipe for disaster.

Disaster is what we’ve got.

What did the English — some 85 percent of the population — do to deserve 12 or 13 years of this outrage?

One thing’s for certain, the Constitution should be changed to ensure no one like Brown ever gets into a senior post in British government again.

It would be a pity to keep out the patrician type though, but that may be a price we have to pay.

With the Tories around 22 percent ahead in the opinion polls and Labour disintegrating before our eyes, the prospects for the European Parliamentary elections on June 4 look promising for the centre-right.

They will be held concurrently with English County elections and a few other polls. My own County, Devon, looks set to go Conservative on a minimum 3 percent swing. It will be a bloody few days for Labour.

The aftermath will not be any better for them. A group of Blairites and leftwingers is said to be plotting to bring Brown down and replace him with … who? Old Charlie Clarke looks the best bet, and probably the only one willing to stand. Unless Hattie … let’s not go there.

Let them meditate on Winston Churchill who, in 1940 and 41 “nothing common did, or mean / Upon that memorable scene.”

John Evans

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Have a great Mayday weekend. See you on Monday.

John Evans

I started writing a blog around four years ago. It was actually this very site, Syntagma, when it was a participant in the American tech blogosphere, probably the most developed and literate part of the blog scene.

Later, I moved away from a precise blog format and began concentrating on finance worldwide, then British politics.

In the early days, the tech blogosphere was dominated by techmeme.com, an aggregator site that pushes posts up the ladder of a river of news depending on the number and importance of the links coming into them.

Techmeme monitored 1000 sites then, including Syntagma, so we often appeared in the list.

Occasionally a massive squabble broke out involving A-list tech bloggers, like Robert Scoble, Jason Calacanis, Dave Winer and others. I quickly learnt that this was deliberate “link baiting”, a process that drags in links, and traffic, from everyone trying to jump on the bandwagon. The idea was to get Google-juice, which pushed up your PageRank and thus earned you more search traffic.

These blogs could not charge for their often high-quality material, so they depended on Google’s Adsense “pay-per-click” advertising system, and some affiliate programs, to finance the work. It explains the rather shrill tone of the blogosphere, compared with the stately progress of broadsheet newspapers.

As I’ve only joined the British political website scene in the past year or so, I’m aware of how small it is compared to the US tech and political blogospheres.

The left is waywardly adrift in the bracing, freedom-loving air of the blog frontier. The likes of Derek Draper perceive it as an opportunity to smear, close down, and generally harry anyone who disagrees with them. They are totally out of kilter with both the potential and the netiquette of the medium.

John Prescott’s humour, and ability to laugh at himself, stands him out as a possible survivor. A few others on the left “get it”, but not many.

Some blogs are read because they are snarky and rude, but the material reflects the readership. The best are cool, informative and as accurate as it’s possible to be writing from a small office or bedroom outside Westminster. Some bloggers have journalistic or other writing backgrounds — they tend to be the best.

Is small beautiful? It’s different, and if done with a deft touch, makes a good contribution to politics in Britain.

I’m not one of those people who thinks blogs will destroy national newspapers — they are all online in any case. Nor do I think the nationals are so superior they will easily swat away the gadflies of small-time blogs.

I have enough tree-rings in the trunk to view the predicted loss of national newspapers with dismay. I couldn’t imagine waking up without the morning papers. Besides, reading everything online is bad for the eyesight. I’ve known a few bloggers who have developed serious eye problems.

Blogs are getting better all the time. Some academic, business and technical blogs provide sober, accurate material of a quality and relevance not found elsewhere. Like choosing your daily paper, it’s a matter of personal selection.

My guess is that as news migrates online, it will become terser and briefer, mobile oriented. Twitter is a sign of the times. Commentary, op-eds and personal opinions are ideal for high-quality blogs, which need to establish an audience through relevance and readability. Most of them will also need to make money, which is not easy.

The question at the top of this piece is: Will bloggers bring down Gordon Brown? Guido’s emails were sent to Sunday papers where they made a much bigger splash than on his blog.

They triggered an almost unprecedented tide of disgust from commentators on the left. Senior Labour people are also weighing in.

Brown must feel beleaguered in his Downing Street bunker. One can imagine even Peter Mandelson and Alastair Campbell silently going to ground as Brown has done on many occasions in the past.

The weight of all this approbrium will surely convince him of two things: one, he can’t win the next election and, two, waiting around for it to happen is not worth the strain to himself and his family.

If he does go, the history books will record that Paul Staines, the blogger at Guido Fawkes website, set the ball rolling. It will be a major scalp for blogging and online writers in the field.

John Evans

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As it’s a holiday weekend and we’re all supposed to be tackling the puzzle supplements that newspapers inexplicably distribute at this time, I thought Syntagma should have its own version.

Well, one puzzle, at least:

In the world of apples and oranges, two plus two equals four.

In the world of water droplets, two plus two equals one.

Does that destroy the cosy world of mathematical certainty? Answers in a linked blogpost or by hitting the contact button in the sidebar.

Dirty tricks are all over the British newspapers this Sunday morning. A senior government aide has fallen on his machete, and the Labour blogosphere, such as it is, has gone into meltdown. More heads are predicted to roll.

I’m not going to comment on the specific incidents or personalities involved because I’m too far off the action to contribute anything of interest. Iain Dale’s blog is the place to get the lowdown and links to other players.

On a side note, this site has twice been the victim of dirty tricks. Two years ago I wrote a review of a new IT product launching in Britain. I criticized the cost of the deal and held the view that it would be a flop over here. I was wrong, but that’s irrelevant. Almost immediately our servers were subjected to a three-day distributed attack, presumably from zombie computers, that closed down our sites for 72 hours.

That was a commercial intervention. I’ve reason to believe that an ongoing kicking is political.

I’m not going to spell this out because that might prejudice the operation of the site, but someone very web-savvy has caused considerable inconvenience to the operation of Syntagma.

Taking into account the new revelations of the extent Downing Street will go to attack its perceived enemies, plus the anti-Labour nature of much of what I write here these days, it doesn’t take much to invite strong suspicions.

Putting two and two together, and making either four or one, it seems just possible that someone who knows about these things is throwing a few silent blows in our direction.

I can’t prove it, of course, but I’m about to approach a third party to investigate.

Politicians are supposed to take reasonably-argued criticisms in their stride. After all, politics can be a brutal game. It seems that this is not the case. Someone somewhere has a thin skin masquerading as a thick one.

The historian Dr David Starkey, has accused lady colleagues of writing only about women in history.

A few of them have replied with the charge that he writes only about men.

Girls, girls!

It’s true that Antonia Fraser and others have penned many pages in the cause of Elizabeth I. Boudicca (Boadicea) attracts a great deal of interest from women historians.

Starkey, who has just begun a Channel 4 series on Henry VIII, is sticking to his guns.

Isn’t it reassuring that some of our most distinguished historians, who interpret the past for us, are capable of having such a deep and edifying discussion?

Rod Liddle, an old Today Programme hand, has informed us that he gave up chives for Lent. A noble choice, and a great sacrifice, given how easy it is to become hooked on chives.

Many years ago, I made a more subtle decision. I gave up giving up for Lent.

In an ad hoc straw poll, someone asked around how many people now give up anything for Lent. The result was vanishingly small, and not much better among Catholics and High Church supporters.

Most, apparently, genuflect towards the practice by giving up something they never consume anyway — Liddle, you have a lot to answer for. Others just lie about it, or ignore it altogether.

Like Advent calendars at Christmas, we just can’t be bothered with all this paraphenalia nowadays.

Apart from farmers, does anyone mark the Quarter Days, for example. Michaelmas is not often mentioned in my presence, even on the day itself. However, it remains part of our poetic heritage, occurring mainly in novels by Thomas Hardy, George Eliot and others of their vintage.

With many Anglicans only using churches for “hatch, match and dispatch” purposes, (births, marriages and deaths), Church leaders really are fighting Canute-like against a tide of indifference.

As today is Easter Sunday, probably the most significant day in the Christian calendar, it does indicate a bleak future for the old religion.

Even America, Christianity’s most humble servant for 200 years, is going in the same direction.

If it is disappearing, do we need to find a substitute fast, or will it be replaced by something infinitely worse and more terrifying?

“When people stop believing in God, they don’t believe in nothing — they believe in anything.”
G.K. Chesterton

An opportunity, or a fall from grace? Times change, but human nature retains its propensity for disaster, and genuine mystics will always be thin on the ground.

The latest answer to the perceived problem of climate change is a process called Carbon Capture and Storage (CCS).

A current advert by the Shell oil company informs us that “capturing” carbon dioxide gas (CO2) from industrial processes, and “storing” it underground, is the safest way of reducing our “carbon footprint” on the Earth. While the company admits this will not be easy, it nevertheless promotes the practice for the future.

Now, I’m trying to visualize this process in the real world. By common consent we emit vast quantities of CO2 from almost everything we do. I haven’t got a number for it, but it must be millions of tons of every day.

If all of that is somehow blown into underground caverns, do they suppose there won’t be leaks? And not just leaks but whole plumes of the stuff spraying out into the air in some places.

Adverse conditions underground, like earthquakes, could make this a nightmare scenario. Imagine not only having to cope with the effects of a quake, but with vast amounts of carbon dioxide gas in the local atmosphere too.

CO2 is not deadly toxic in the way carbon monoxide is, but enough of it has poisonous effects and might reduce the oxygen in the air sufficiently to suffocate many people. It might also be changed by atmospheric conditions — sun, cosmic rays, etcetera — into deadly monoxide and kill everyone in sight.

Here’s what expert website Analox.net calculates:

After a few decades of this process, the amount of the gas stored underground will be vast. Given scientists’ knack of getting things wrong, how can we possibly allow this to happen?

We may be in more danger from the climate scientists than the climate itself.

TV veteran Michael Parkinson, had this to say about Jade Goody’s death: “When we clear the media smoke screen from around her death, what we’re left with is a woman who came to represent all that’s paltry and wretched about Britain today.”

Jade Goody’s grandmother replied: “If I could see him face-to-face I would love to give him a right mouthful and a wallop.”

It proves Parkie’s case, doesn’t it?

John Evans

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How I came to be talking to the most glamorous woman in the room I shall never know. She introduced herself as a “chrematist”. I must have flinched slightly, picturing her shapely form shovelling bodies into a furnace.

“It’s a political economist.”
“Ah, of course. Not…er…?”
She smiled darkly. “There are some I would dearly like to get my hands on.” Glancing swiftly round the room betraying, I fancied, just a touch of anxiety, she asked, “What do you do?”

I became acutely conscious of my own inadequacies: what can one say about clerical duties?
“I’m an exequatureur.”
“A what?”

I remembered the word from an old document I had found in a disused filing cabinet. “I process government licences for foreign agents,” I said as airily as I could, then back-tracked. “Commercial agents, actually.” It was substantially true, but low-ranking civil servant would have been more to the point.

Deftly she took a martini from a rapidly passing tray. I had missed and contrived to push the hair back over my ear with the trailing arm.
“We’re almost in the same line of business, then?”
“Indeed?”
“Forex.”

I raised my eyebrows non-committally. “I advise the Minister on the foreign exchange markets.” She swung round again to survey the entire room in one panoramic sweep, giving me a fleeting opportunity to regard her more closely.

The cut of her jib was undoubtedly superior to any jib I had come across before. Her lustrous eyes matched the heather-flecked colour of her hair, and the slight Scottish burr was a visceral pleasure. More to the point, she had a power job that made mine seem like a deckchair franchise.

I found her viewing me quizzically; my baleful expression must have shown. “The finger buffet is always excellent, if you’re hungry?”

It took me a little while to realise that she was inviting me to lunch, albeit standing up with a nibble. We stood over minuscule smoked salmon sandwiches, hardly speaking. Various bodies flitted to and fro, pushing us together as if we were part of some encounter group. Presently she spotted someone on the other side of the room. “Oh look, there’s the Minister.”

He had seen her and was scurrying towards us, a portly cove in his late forties, his familiar face festooned with a multitude of smiles for his lovely adviser. She was only slightly less welcoming; but there was a fine edge there which he did not seem to pick up.

She attempted to introduce me. “Tom, this is…” She didn’t know my name. My reply was completely drowned out by the tannoy making some feckless announcement about a BMW in the car park. The Minister shook my hand vigorously as if after my vote. He started to talk about the feelgood factor, while his arm reached squidlike around her waist. I sensed a minute discomfort on her part, professionally concealed. He whispered something in her ear and was almost instantly gone with a wave and a twinkle. I condemned him silently without trial. Lounge lizard!

“Why don’t you come over for supper tonight?” To say I was surprised would be the understatement of all time. “Er…yes…Ok…if you like…why not.”

She handed me her card. Her name was Tania Lawson. In my confusion I forgot to give her mine. Thus we parted half strangers, almost as we began.

The evening started well. Tania looked stunning in a little black number that knowingly emphasised the finer points of her person. Supper was almost certainly tarted-up fare from the supermarket chill cabinet, but in her company it was a feast for the gods. We talked about the City, the current political situation, of which she was exceptionally well informed, and a film called “Thumb”.

Over coffee, I noticed a faraway look in her eyes. “I like this time of year, don’t you?” I glanced out of the window at the slashing rain driving against the glass. “It’s so masculine,” she sighed. There was a rumble of thunder in the distance and for some reason I thought of Odin. “I believe they mentioned storms in the forecast,” I ventured, lamely. “Don’t worry, you can stay if it gets worse.”

I must have gulped audibly. She stared at me for a moment as if it were the sort of invitation I would receive all the time. The sky thundered uneasily, matching my mood. Her glass tapped sharply on the vitreous surface of the coffee table. She rose absently and went over to the picture window. “How much do you earn?”

I was jolted yet again out of my reverie. Here was a conundrum. After a moment’s hesitation I settled on playing it long.

“You’re not going to sell me a pension, are you?” She was silent a long while. So that was it! She was going to sell me a pension. I should really have known better.

She turned abruptly, her face peculiarly intense. “I like you. You don’t boast about your income. That’s different. It’s a great asset.” She was not going to sell me a pension. I inhaled gratefully.

“What’s your favourite football team?” “Er…I haven’t got one. Can’t stand the noise frankly.” “Even better.” She clapped her hands with girlish glee. I couldn’t put a foot wrong.

“Do you like Pavarotti?” Now here was a cliffhanger. Was she an original instrument purist or a Classic FM groupie. I went for the former with an almost visible tremor. “Excellent.” Tania swivelled towards me.

“Favourite book?” “Er…Hornblower and the Hotspur.” She paused for just a second: “The 19th Century is the future.”

Tania was looking straight at me now: “Favourite piece of music?” I fumbled, not being even faintly musical. Mahler’s Resurrection Symphony rose unbidden. Her smile said it all. “Those chords!”

I had got it right again. Aware that my luck could change, I tried to head her off. “Would you like to see my CV?”

“Sense of humour, good taste, man of the world…” I grimaced with some disbelief. Was this an ego massage, or a subtle trap? I confess I hadn’t a clue.

“You could be head-hunted.” “For what?” “It’s my little joke — a woman’s joke.” “Ah, of course,” I said, pretending to understand.

“What car do you drive?” I had a vision of my old Talbot Alpine with its livery of white and rust. “It’s a kind of classic car…You know, Inspector Morse…that sort of thing.”

Tania beamed her approval. The clock struck ten. Like Cinderella at the ball, she unaccountably span round and stared hard out of the window with that strange intensity I found oddly unsettling. I fell silent for quite a while, unable to connect with her ragged ideas.

Suddenly, no doubt becoming aware of my increasing bewilderment, she swept towards me with that same assured impulsiveness that seemed to be her trademark. She sat down beside me on the sofa, placed her liqueur on the table and, without a by your leave, threw her arms around my neck. Utterly astonished, I felt her warm, moist lips press invitingly against mine. I surrendered willingly to her charms.

Almost at that very moment the door of the flat boomed open with a violence that startled me out of my torpor of delight. I looked up to confront the Minister, framed voluminously in the doorway. His eyes thundered down on me, pinning me mentally to the seat with silent damning accusation.

Tania stood up immediately, her eyes ablaze, though not without a hint of trepidation. “I told you it was never on, Tom,” she said with the brittle calmness of a prepared speech.

The Minister glared. Not a man to cross, I rapidly surmised. “You’ve met…er…haven’t you?” I realised I had still not told her my name.

He remained silent. I calculated it was not a normal characteristic of his and boded ill. “…at the buffet, this afternoon. I did tell you, Tom.” She was stumbling gamely to an inevitable collapse.

The Minister visited a satanic glare in my direction. No feelgood factor now, I sensed. “He’s in forex,” she continued. “Briefs agents. Top gun. High flyer. Into vintage cars.”

Now, it is my experience that when a man wants something from a woman, finding her singing the praises of another is not designed to ameliorate the situation. I opened my mouth to comment, but was inexplicably lost for words. The tableau continued without my intervention: Tom scowled menacingly; Tania had stopped talking and sat down heavily beside me.

“What are you going to do?” she asked pathetically. But the Minister had wheeled on his heels and made a noisy exit.

Tania turned guiltily towards me. “I’m sorry to have used you like this.”

So that was it. I was nothing but a buffer to repulse the advances of the importunate Minister. “I had to do something,” she almost whined. “Can’t you see that? He was all over me. I thought that if he found me in the arms of someone else…” She trailed off.

“But he had your key,” I reminded her stiffly, still not entirely satisfied. “It’s one of his flats. I had nowhere else to go at the time.”

“I see.” Words were not coming easily. There was a long pause.

She turned to me again. A kindly look, almost human — a departure. The thunder roared outside and we began to be aware of the rain. “What about all those questions?” “Just conversation.” “Filling in time before Tom came?” It was all plain now, and to give her her due, she didn’t deny it. Why did I suspect that, despite all that had happened, she was actually laughing at me. The dupe, the fool whose body stood between her and God knows what fate at the hands of the diplomatically-challenged Minister?

“Stay for a while.” “What?” She gazed down at her feet. “He might come back.” There was another pause. “I should tell you…hmm…that Tom is yesterday’s man. The PM is on his way out and the smart dosh is on Simonson to take over. Tom won’t appear in his Cabinet — old scores, you know.”

“Yes, I do know.” I said wearily. “And where does that leave you, Tania?” Her eyes gleamed. “In pole position, of course.”

It seemed she was moving in with Simonson, who had never married. “He feels the need of a young wife to make him look cool.” “That’s a bit mercenary.” “Way to go,” she said, with a wink that to my imagination contained the kiss of death.

“Tom has moved me sideways.”

I considered her trim figure and then her shell-shocked face. “That seems a pointless exercise.”

“He’s posted me to Overseas Development. I’ll spend the next five years cutting through African jungles and punting down the Amazon in hollowed-out tree trunks. Naturally, I’ve resigned.”

She had asked me to stay overnight in case Tom came back. When I agreed, she put me into a small box-room in an out-of-the-way corner of the apartment. I had already ventured out into the local park to shake off the effects of the lumpy mattress stoically endured in her cause.

Sheepishly I handed her the flowers I had picked on the way back. “They’re a white variety of blubell, apparently known for their scent”

It was meant to be a tender moment but she responded like an automaton, burying her face dutifully in the bunch. I watched her features screw up in disgust. “Where did you get these — a Greek restaurant? They stink of garlic!”

It was not an auspicious start to the day. After she had thoroughly showered for the second time that morning (she has an aversion to the onion family, especially floral bouquets of wild garlic), her fine mind turned briskly to the business of the day.

“I’ll have to find a new flat.” “What about Simonson?” “He’s not making waves just now, not until the PM resigns.” “Yes, of course,” I replied dubiously.

“And a new job.” “Quite.” “Of course, I might be head-hunted.” “So you’re going to the Amazon after all?”

Tania was not in the mood for jokes. We drank tea in silence. Her preoccupation was unnerving. I was used to a near-manic Tania, swinging from mood to mood like a psychological Tarzan. This figure of despondent introversion was entirely new to me.

“Well, maybe I’d better make a move. Things to do, people to see …” “Agents to brief. You are so lucky. I don’t suppose you can second me onto your team”

I gulped. My team? I had a team of two if you included a part-time typist and the tea lady. “Tania, you need to strike out on your own now. Don’t be content with second best or sideways. Call in your favours and insist on some respect. After all, you stood up to the Minister. Simonson should be able to find you a job, at the very least.”

She gazed at me entranced. “That’s what I like about you. You’re a go-getter, a grasper of the moment. You’ll go far. No doubt about it.”

I did. I beat a hasty retreat before she could make inroads into my defence. I never saw her again.

A month later, the Prime Minister resigned for health reasons. By some strange twist of fate Tom was asked to form a new Government.

A week after that bombshell, Tom rang me at home. His voice was more smug than ever. “Look here, I want you to come and work here at Downing Street. I was very impressed with Tania’s opinion of you. She may be a very foolish young woman, but where work’s concerned, she’s got an eye for talent.”

I felt myself busking. “Er…what happened to Tania?”

He chuckled. “Reduced to the outer darkness, I’m afraid. Said to be marrying that old loser Simonson — can’t see it myself. So then, will you or won’t you come to work for my policy unit?”

“Yes Prime Minister…of course,” I stammered. He cooed, as his type do when getting their way.

“Incidentally…what is your name?”

If you peep behind the curtains of your favourite daily newspaper, you’ll come across an interesting phenomenon. Many of them now have an Editor at Large.

From memory, there’s Jeff Randall at the Telegraph, Anatole Kaletsky at The Times, and even Country Life has one, its former editor, Clive Aslet.

What exactly do they do? The one distinguishing feature seems to be that they write fewer articles than hitherto. Smaller role, bigger title. Sooo 21st century.

Maybe they’re out roaming the countryside, hence “at large”. I can understand the Country Life chap doing that, but Jeff Randall? He’s roaming about the studios of Sky News — hardly “at large” is it?

It was always dangerous criminals who were “at large”, never, to my recollection, newspaper editors.

“Here is the news. Mad Frankie Grimethorpe, the multiple axe murderer, is still at large on Dartmoor. The public is urged to use great caution when approaching him.”

Is there something we should be told about our current crop of editors?

Just a week to Easter, my favourite time of year. It is positively springlike here in Devon, as if Rachel Carson never existed.

The G20 is over, Parliament is taking its hols — like birch pollen it comes earlier every year — and the Budget is three weeks away. We have a politics-free zone for almost a month.

I don’t know about you, but I’m politicked out. Would it be too much to ask the press barons to ban politics from the public prints for this brief interlude?

Maybe editors and hacks could go walkabout?

Or “at large” as we media folk put it.

Lord Hoffman, the retiring Law Lord, has stood up for British justice at last by roundly condemning the so-called European Court of Human Rights in Strasbourg.

It is, he says, accruing to itself the role of Supreme Court of a fictional United States of Europe.

The court is made up of dozens of highly paid “judges” from countries like Bulgaria, Russia and Romania, which have almost no rule of law themselves. These upstart briefs consider it a good day’s work to overrule the democratically passed laws of ancient States like Britain.

Hoffman has left it a bit late in the day to make this critique. Many of us have been saying it for years.

The Sunday Telegraph is urging the Conservatives to pull Britain out of the Convention altogether and leave the interpretation of these things to British judges. So they should.

They should also repeal the Blairs’ Human Rights Act which has shredded the Common Law and made a mockery of justice in this country.

British laws for British people would be a good Tory rallying cry.

And while they’re at it, they could also scrap the European Extradition Warrant and the one-sided arrangement with America, whereby they can remove people from Britain without due process, but we can’t from the U.S.

It’s time our politicians remembered what their backbones are for, and stood up for the people of these islands.

Hard to get away from politics isn’t it?

Here’s more: Andrew Neil is retiring soon from a top slot at the BBC.

Over the years he has been a sturdy, even bullish, commentator on many aspects of politics, business and the media — he was once editor of The Sunday Times, and a joint owner (and editor) of The Scotsman.

Apart from The Daily Politics, in which he gives a commendable impression of Terry Wogan, and his Thursday night This Week show, which is on so late nobody watches it, he chairs the sombre News Channel show Straight Talk on Saturday nights.

And sombre is the word. The set is pitch black, the music funereal, the guests so old they look like waxworks. If you haven’t seen it, think Anthony Howard reminiscing on Harold Wilson and you know it by heart.

I’ve got a few ideas for a spruce up.

Change the set to white, play in with Amarillo by Tony Christie, set an upper age limit of 45 on the guests, and insist they still have an active role in politics. Bar all mention of Clement Attlee and Roy Hattersley — in fact, ban him too — and invite guests more like Michael Gove and David Miliband (with banana). Vince Cable could only appear if he does a twirl around the studio as an encore.

Maybe Andrew would have to retire early too, although his version of Amarillo on This Week is fondly remembered by many.

Iain Dale had a poll on his blog asking readers whether Britain should be a member of a future United States of Europe, or become the 51st State of the USA.

Apart from the fact that Washington has never offered an invitation to join it, while Brussels thinks it owns us already, this is not as simple a choice as it seems.

Putting aside the feasibilities of the matter, either option would obliterate British history and sovereignty and reduce the country to a subsidiary Hong Kong status.

Given only the two choices in the poll, America won hands down, 81 percent to 19.

However, if we lose sight of reality, we are truly lost. Just half a century ago Britain ran a worldwide empire bigger than any before or since. It provided the world’s language, its mercantile system, and the model of liberal democracy that dominates the planet even now.

It created the industrial revolution, and showed how a nation could live with its past and be modern, without a political revolution.

To throw in the towel because of the travails of the moment would be going against the grain of the national character.

Three words sum up the cause of Britain’s fall from grace: the Labour party.

Every time this bunch of political pygmies gets into power, the United Kingdom drops down the league of world nations. The Conservatives usually manage to haul it up a few notches, but never completely.

There is a progressive backlog of slippage which increases with every Labour occupancy of Whitehall.

If they win the next election, we may have to settle for membership of the Russian Federation, with Vladamir Putin settled in Buckingham Palace.

David Cameron, your time has come.

The timing of the General Election is on the minds of many pundits in the aftermath of the G20 summit and in the light of an upcoming penny-pinching Budget.

Peter Oborne has pulled back from his tentative suggestion that June, 2009 is a strong possibility, and I agree with him.

With so many elections being held, for local councils and the European “parliament”, the turnout will probably be small. The electorate seems sure to give Labour a trouncing in the locals, so it’s hard to see a different verdict in a Westminster poll.

Brown has few options save playing for a hung Parliament and a deal with the Lib Dems. Risking another winter of growing unemployment and worsening public finances, would be suicidal.

Syntagma’s finely-tuned antenna is screaming “autumn, autumn!” It has to be, hasn’t it? I simply can’t see beyond October. Whatever the position is then, it will just get worse next year.

Brown has to hope for a golden, hot summer, and a mellow public mood.

He will lose, without doubt. There is a shabbiness beyond redemption about his administration that can’t be denied or swept under the carpet.

John Evans

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Here at Syntagma Towers we groaned at the news that Edward Kennedy is to get an honorary Knighthood at the request of Gordon Brown, a long term friend of the Massachusetts Senator.

The fate of Mary Jo Kopechne, left to drown at Chappaquiddick Island by the younger brother of JFK, destroyed Ted Kennedy’s presidential hopes for ever.

The incident was made worse by Kennedy’s failure to alert police and rescue services for 24 hours or more. Did Brown not remember this shameful incident while planning to devalue British chivalric orders?

I suppose if you’re prepared to debauch the nation’s currency, and find room for Stalinist Eric Hobsbawm in the Companionship of Honour, you’re beyond doing the right thing.

Of Knighthoods, Shakespeare got it right:

When first this order was ordain’d, my Lords,
Knights … were of noble birth,
Valiant and virtuous, full of haughty courage …
He then that is not furnish’d in this sort
Doth but usurp the sacred name of Knight,
Profaning this most honourable order.

Quite.

It’s official. Labour will lose the next election.

At least that was the strong impression given by Peter Mandelson on the Andrew Marr programme this morning.

Discussing the problems of the Royal Mail and his unpopular efforts to privatize 30 percent of it, Mandelson said that Labour had tried to do this a number of times before, without success.

Then the crucial admission: “This is the last throw of the dice for this government.”

Slip of the tongue? Freudian whatsit? Silky way of subtly distancing himself from the coming defeat by predicting it, while sticking it on Gordon Brown?

Or do we overrate the Machiavellian powers of this man for whom “the last throw of the dice” might be equally appropriate?

After criticizing the government’s handling of the financial crisis many times on this site, I’ve received a few indignant communications asking “What would you do then?”

Here’s what I wrote on January 23:

“Of the £650bn [public sector] pot, an emergency £150bn cut would be relatively easy, if painful for some. Overpaid operatives in the sector could be offered the choice between a 25 percent pay cut or redundancy. This would rebuild the public finances and make room for tax cuts. Brown built his empire, let him now dismantle it for this country’s sake.”

Paul Johnson wrote this week of the 20 percent pay cuts across public services during the 1930s depression (Spectator).

Now hundreds of thousands of workers in the private sector have quietly agreed to pay cuts already. Many more have been laid off altogether or put onto shorter working weeks. Why then should the public sector be immune this time round?

The answer is twofold: Brown is afraid of public sector strikes, and is averse to clipping his “client state” for electoral purposes.

Politics is the art of the possible, but I believe that most people in the public sector should realize they can’t be set above the rest forever.

David Cameron and George Osborne will face a wall of ideology, propped up by buttresses of self-interest, when they come to power. It’s vital, though, they don’t shirk the dismantling of Brown’s folly.

We now know that Gordon Brown has sunk an extra £219 billion a year in real terms into his personal vanity project, the equivalent of the massive pyramids built by dodgy Pharaohs in ancient Egypt.

Lopping £150 billion off that is not beyond the wit of determined Conservatives.

On Thursday, Prince Charles is to claim we have 100 months to save the planet from “irreversible climate change”. A strange assertion in the circumstances.

Man’s contribution to natural global warming is unknown and, in my view, probably greatly overstated by the anti-capitalist activists who push the argument to ridiculous levels.

However, consider what they might say if the present economic crash had not happened, and countries around the world had voluntarily reduced their greenhouse gases by the same amount as the drop caused by the current world depression.

Wouldn’t they be ecstatic with delight and self-praise? Imagine the articles in The Guardian claiming the moral high ground. I don’t think the phrase: “100 months to save the world” would be uttered by anyone. Why spoil a great story.

Furthermore, has any of the followers of James Lovelock considered that a prolonged world depression might be the handiwork of Gaia — the supposed self-regulatory mechanism of the planet itself?

If Gaia exists, it’s precisely what you would expect, is it not?

According to the theory, Mankind is an irrelevance in all this.

A few months ago I succumbed to the Twitter craze, mainly to find out about “microblogging” — messages limited to 140 characters, or less.

For illustration, the paragraph above is 138 characters.

I don’t use the account very much (twitter.com/Syntagma), and I haven’t delved into it beyond spraying out a few tart comments from time to time.

However, there’s a vast hinterland behind Twitter, comprising hundreds of applications that allow you to aggregate, sort, search and personalize the modest, low wordage utterances of the Twitocracy. Some Twitizens even believe it’s the way news will be distributed in future.

How does Twitter make money? It doesn’t. Google has denied it will buy it, which must put the kibosh on the service pretty soon.

Who else will snap it up in the current climate? Rupert Murdoch, the Barclay Brothers? Few takers, I think.

It’s more than likely that a new class system will emerge, with toffs who read newspapers, and twits who tweet like birds.

The fate of an earlier Canadian Conservative Government is casting the gloomiest of shades over Labour MPs. In 1993 it was reduced from power to two seats in the Canadian House of Commons.

The Canadian meltdown has no equivalent in British politics, although the Tories have been in the doldrums for 12 years and sometimes it must have felt like that.

Now it’s Labour’s turn to ruminate their fate and sink into political bipolar disorder. Could it happen here?

The Canadian House of Commons has 308 members, the British House, 646. Two seats in Ottawa would translate into 4.19 at Westminster.

Is it possible that Labour could fall into single figures at the next election? Unlikely, but a double-figure result should not be ruled out.

With Gordon in charge, the campaign will be clunky. Whatever advantage a sitting government gets from being in power will be cancelled out by his dire performance.

His closest colleagues will be more interested in positioning themselves to take over the leadership than saving his neck. The mood of the public will be explosive and there could be rioting on the streets.

David Cameron, on the other hand, will undoubtedly run a smooth and impressive campaign, with all his senior people onboard for a return to power.

The LibDems and other parties will be severely squeezed. UKIP Tories will want to be on the winning side, while the BNP will take votes from Labour.

It’s hard to see how a Conservative landslide can be avoided. But a Canadian-style meltdown is not the British way.

If it were, who, we might ask, would be Labour’s 0.19? There are plenty of candidates for that role.

John Evans

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What is Emily Maitlis on?

Emily Maitlis and Nick Owen on the BBC News Channel

The Newsnight presenter is usually somber and on the ball during her late night appearances in Jeremy Paxman’s chair. But catch her after lunch on the BBC’s News Channel and she giggles like a schoolgirl, often for no apparent reason.

I’m not complaining, it’s good to have a bit of life injected into this often funereal blanket of news.

But what is she on? Either the BBC canteen serves a good wine at lunch, or … she’s very ticklish.

Lots of chatter about “one-term Tories” last week. This golden Labour scenario sounds like it was invented by someone with a vested interest in the Labour leadership and hopes to avoid a generational shift.

Jack Straw or Peter Mandelson, perhaps?

It presupposes that David Cameron gets bogged down in the first years of his premiership and becomes so unpopular that the country turns back to Labour with relief in the subsequent election. Margaret Thatcher’s first period in office is cited. It was fraught with recessionary woes and nearly collapsed but for the Falklands War.

The difference now is that the country gives ownership of the nation’s economic plight to Gordon Brown and Labour. They also know that Brown’s frantic attempts to fix it have failed, with more failure to come.

However bad it gets in the next Parliament, Labour’s wishful thinking will not be granted. Disaster on this scale requires a generation to forget.

With careful stewardship, the Conservatives can count on three periods in office at least. They should develop a To-Do list that will last them for three Parliaments. It will take that long.

The first of March is the beginning of my Spring Offensive. This is when I throw off the torpors of winter through a programme of rigorous diet and excercise.

Last year the American tech blogosphere was heavy with “fatblogging” — a form of ritual torture which not only hammers the body but also gets the sufferer to write about it in detail for the consumption of fellow addicts and bemused onlookers.

Naturally, I’ll not be going down that road in 2009.

Like many another, I put on a few pounds during the months of dark nights and midwinter festivities. This year I have one stone to lose by the end of March. It may not seem much, but that’s quite a lot of weight.

One stone — or 14 pounds — is the equivalent of five copies of The Sunday Times. Next time you’re in a newsagent’s on a Sunday pick them up and feel how much added padding that represents. You’ll be shocked.

So I hope to shed one Sunday Times and a magazine section each week through March. No doubt some weeks I’ll only manage a Mail on Sunday, and may even be heard cursing, “Damn, I’ve put on a News of the World in seven days!”

So exercise has to be part of the plan too. My aim is to similate the fitness of a Mountain Man, who is said to walk up mountains (hills, really) at the same rate as he walks down — no mean feat, and tough on the quadriceps.

As it takes six weeks to reach the maximum fitness you can attain without professional training, I usually start this part of the programme in mid-February.

The diet begins tomorrow the 2nd of March, on the principle that it shows an excessively eager nature to start too soon.

The State education system in Britain just gets worse and worse. Hyperactive jobsworths are forever coming up with new wheezes that dazzle in the headlines for an hour but have no merit in practice.

The entire structure is probably beyond repair after 12 years of scorched earth policies for everything that promotes a well-stocked mind and an understanding of the principles that stand behind ideas and formulations.

The Conservatives have yet to jettison some of Labour’s most pernicious obsessions, like the refusal to allow selection in academic subjects. I have high hopes they will do so in office.

But what should the basic education system provide?

It should give students the ability to position themselves in time and space, with historical narrative as the time axis, and geography as the space axis. Both subjects have been severely downgraded in primary and secondary schooling.

The curriculum should also be shorn of soft “social” subjects better learnt at home or through experience. All attempts at social engineering should be strictly outlawed.

Psychobabble has become a wordy substitute for a true understanding of human nature, which is not a machine. Allied to that, PC (political so-called correctness) has assumed fascist proportions in attempts to control the thoughts of the population. Schools lead the way as mind-cleansing centres of anything with which the government disagrees.

Why do they do that? Because “they” — and we know who they are — want us all to be just like them.

Sorry, we don’t.

A lost generation of schoolchildren from the Labour years will probably never be redeemed and will haunt the future as they carry the mouldy seed of mediocrity forward.

The Conservatives can make a start on creating a new wave of educated young people with a better grasp of the fundamentals and of more use to the 21st-century world.

If you’re looking for a good read on the wild and woolly side, there’s no better publication to start with than The Hedge Fund Journal — there had to be one, didn’t there?

I’m always fascinated at how every niche market has its journal and coterie of followers, often existing in another dimension from the rest of us.

So the Asset Management class, which has produced its own stars, like Hugh Hendry of Eclectica — the Mick Jagger of short (and long) selling — has a journal to keep its members in touch.

To most people hedge funds are so exotic they belong on another planet. They are run by a tribe of self-confessed pirates, some with a single ship, others with an entire fleet.

Hugh Hendry has become a media star, sought after by the likes of Jeff Randall on Sky, and Evan Davis on the BBC. His good humour and Blarney-stoned eloquence, with an irresistible touch of the unexpected, puts him in the top bracket of media performers from the much-depleted ranks of the hedgies.

Will they survive the depression? Just as the world needs hyenas and vultures to clear up carrion, and bacteria to consume dead and dying bodies, I suspect they will.

You have to see it in the round.

Is the eurozone about to break up? Don’t rule it out.

There’s a lot of conflicting talk around at the moment. The Germans are adamantly opposed to taking on liability for the debts of the less disciplined members — the PIIGS: Portugal, Italy, Ireland, Greece and Spain; Emerald Club Med, one might say.

Yet the German Finance Minister has not ruled out a rescue in the last resort. German voters might not take kindly to it though, and there are elections in September.

Now the European Investment Bank (EIB) is being touted as the issuer of new Euro bonds to shore up these profligate countries. The unbending Maastricht Treaty rules this area, of course, but a little matter of law never stopped the Commission bending the rules in the past. The European Stability Pact was a classic example.

Whatever happens next will prove that the present one-size-fits-all system can never survive without either much more beef behind it, or a smaller membership.

At the end of this depression, I expect the eurozone will look very different and carry much less weight in the world.

Quote of the Week

“England, together with the rest of the world, is changing. And like everything else it can change only in certain directions, which up to a point can be foreseen.” George Orwell

John Evans

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This week we feature some great new blog posts from the UK political blogosphere. It’s been a good week for politics, despite Parliament standing itself down for half-term.

As always with Labour, “work/life balance” comes before a national emergency, especially when they are on the ropes.

Let us know if you would like your political blog put on our watch List.

Stephanie Flanders, BBC Blogs
It might not be you

The National Institute of Economic and Social Research expects British households’ real disposable income to grow by 3.3% in 2009. That would be the fastest growth in years.

Daniel Hannan, Telegraph Blogs
There’s nothing Right-wing about the BNP

As Hayek wrote in 1944 in his brilliant chapter on “the socialist roots of Nazism”, the dispute between fascists and socialists is a dispute between brothers. Labour and the BNP are, in a sense, competing for the same sort of voter: one who believes in the power of the state.

Toby Helm, Guardian Blogs
Scent of victory for Tories revives leadership hopes for Labour frontbenchers

Gone is the sense that the Tories will inevitably be in “for a decade” or “a generation” with Labour MPs languishing during their prime years in opposition. The crisis has changed perceptions of the political calendar. In many senses it is bad news for Cameron.

Edmund Conway, Telegraph Blogs
The market gives a thumbs-up to printing money

But that’s precisely the opposite of what happened this morning when the Bank of England said that within weeks it will have the printing presses roaring away. In fact, as you can see from the graph here, after the Bank announced this in its Monetary Policy Committee minutes at around 9.30, people started buying, rather than selling, sterling.

Fraser Nelson, Coffee House
If Cameron wants a second term, he needs to level with the public now

Might David Cameron be a one-term wonder? … the economic stars are aligning in a way that will make sensible Conservatives shudder. Cuts – real ones, not the type Gordon Brown accuses the Tories of – are looking inevitable.

Robert Peston, BBC Blogs
Brown’s cautious bank reforms

He is saying no to a British version of the 1933 Glass-Steagall Act, or the kind of sweeping reconstruction of the banking system that was prompted by America’s Great Depression (arguably, an important contributor to our current woes was the abolition in 1999 of the prohibition on US commercial banks engaging in investment banking – which allowed the creation of the modern, horrifically loss-making Citigroup).

Daniel Hannan, Telegraph Blogs
MEPs walk out when Vaclav Klaus questions European integration

The response of MEPs? To hoot their derision and flounce out. By a delicious coincidence, the walk-out happened just as [President Vaclav] Klaus was making his point about listening to opinions you disagreed with.

And finally … Jon Craig, Boulton and Co
A Deserved Pat On The Back?

There’s a great picture of a “love-in” between Brown, Sarkozy and Merkel. Brown cuddles up to Sarkozy, while Sarko engages Merkel in animated discussion. Priceless.

I’m not sure Europe’s leaders will be patting him on the back if his grandiose “global new deal” turns out to be a futile gesture.

Selected by John Evans